Miro, Miro

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Miro, Miro on the wall
who is the Dadaist of all?
Abstract art and yet not quite, for
I see women, birds, and stars
that are dark instead of bright.

Visited the Miro exhibition at L’Hermitage Foundation, Lausanne, Switzerland, a most enjoyable visit.

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Playing with the boys

Maybe my competitiveness
stems from my first day
at infant school?

Asked to pick a “friend”,
I pointed to angel faced Simon.
The teacher became nervous,
the class let out a shocked sigh..
that breathed “She’s picked a boy!”

Or could it originate from
the start of primary school?

As a girl, I was informed
that I couldn’t play football.
Plans to play for England
and Kevin Keegan dashed,
I was made to play netball instead.

Perhaps it was during those
years at secondary school?

There was the year of “Top Gun”,
with the sound of Kenny Loggins’
“Playing with the boys”;
how I’d sing those lines
always emphasizing:
“Girls play too!”

It was then I was socially
permitted boyfriends,
if not boys as friends.

Whenever it was that it began,
I noticed it again today –
the spark, the motivation,
the will to raise my game.

The cause: all male speakers
(mature age profs no less)
and me.

Here was another fresh chance
to prove my gender mettle,
to stick my tongue out at the past,
and those who restricted my activities
based on corporeal distinctions.

Here I was again – back
playing with the boys.

The Wildlife Photographer

Stillness.

Patience.

Waiting..

for the right moment,
the right movement,
an interesting appearance,
a bemusing behaviour.

He captures inside, outside,
emotions stalk his wild mental life.
He takes no shots,
yet he is a WILD-life photographer.

He has no camera:
words measure focal length,
light’s metered by intonation,
and syllables create the
white(right) balance.

Life is recorded in films
of poems colored and
saved in RAW feeling.

There’s no wastage,
no blurred deletions,
not a single still.

Yet, through all the years of
being a WildLife photographer,
he’s still searching for the one
that isn’t either underdeveloped
or overexposed.

An unnatural breath

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I could breathe in time,
develop a rhythmic,
synchronized,
pattern of respiration,
inhale – exhale
in balance with my motion,
but I desire to
stretch my lungs.

My chest expands and I immerse.
Chlorine water rushes to surround –
penetrating, while my limbs
propel me across the surface.

Instinct would have me hold
that breath, keep the air,
my oxygen, my possession, inside.
The urge to cling is automatic.

But, I’m aware, alert, attentive,
I effortfully abandon the air,
pursing my lips, cheeks taut,
I force life out of me..

Slowly..

air releases, bubbles emerge,
my lungs empty, and as I recognise
the need to tilt my head sideways,
I’m already at the other side of the pool.

(It was a small hotel pool BTW)

Keep it in the family: Intolerance

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Part 1: Intro

99.9% Caucasian
my electorate
as a child.

Part 2: Nepotism

“It’s not the same.”
My anger flares –
I’m thirteen, reading
a congratulatory letter –
one sent to my mother
after my birth.

Sent from Aunt Ada
“It’s been a long time
since there’s been a
baby in the family!”

Except that it’s not.

She does acknowledge
my two cousins, but
“It’s not the same” for
they are adopted.

I’m appalled by
the prejudice, as if
it could be contagious,
a lurking, tainted, threat.

Part 3: Racism

She warned my mother
not to “spoil me with sweets”.
As my Grandmother, she took that
to be her prerogative.

She exercised patience
in her friendship with
an uneducated, hairy-chinned,
female, village outcast.

She sang Chapel hymns
with tears in her eyes,
as I rolled mine, and
awkwardly cringed.

But, she could also easily
make me see red, when
she’d start with her fearful
“I hear Indians are moving in”.

I’d try to quash the conversation
“How nice to meet new people,
it will be exciting to learn
from another culture.”

Rarely, would she desist,
and I’d have to walk away,
or hang-up the phone,
but why that one day?

I stormed off
didn’t say goodbye,
to my regret,
the next day she died.

Part 4: Aspiration for tolerance

That I accept and acknowledge
that those I hold dear have faults,
and to love them dearly for
the qualities they do possess.

However, may I never fall
into complacency, and always
stand as an ally to those who
would fall prey to discriminative views.


Note: Posts may be disrupted, as I embark on the next leg of my sabbatical (five days in Switzerland before heading on to the States).

Church shadow dancing

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She is dancing with his shadow –
flitting across the churchyard street,
where she now ignores the hallow.
She is dancing with his shadow
turned from his face hollow-fallow
to follow those flickering feet.
She is dancing with his shadow
flitting across the churchyard street.

I felt it was time for a triolet.

A little bird told..

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Be careful what you tweet,
be careful what you tweet,
be careful what you tweet,
keep it nice and sweet.

Be careful what you say,
be careful what you say,
be careful what you say,
it’s not just the NSA.

Be careful what you do,
be careful what you do,
be careful what you do,
celebrities listen too!

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Finding my tweet retweeted by the Gardner’s, I also owned up to an early crush on James – they retweeted that too!
Further note to readers: instead of a muse, the poetry demon has got me, and I can’t stop thinking and seeing poetry everywhere – it’s driving me nuts – but normal service will hopefully resume soon…